Page 5 of Bitter Poetry

“So, we’re going to kick the door down, yeah?” I ask Jero. “Smash the lock, maybe?”

“Wot? No, mate.” Jero shakes his head, brows bunching together. “Look at this frame. Going to break something trying to bust that down.”

“Alright then. How do we get in? Do you have the key?”

It’s been a strange time since my father passed away. My mother packed up and boarded a plane for Italy. I moved in with Dante.

A therapist once told me I don’t process emotions normally, which wasn’t very helpful beyond making me realize that honesty was not the right approach to therapy sessions. All I know is that an uncomfortable gap exists where my father used to be. And a few days ago when I had the chance to fuck upa loser who slapped around a club girl badly enough that she missed work, I felt like I woke up for a bit.

“If I had a key, I wouldn’t be standing around with my ass in my hand,” he mutters. “We’re going to pick the lock. Gotta know how to pick a lock, mate. Never know when you might be in a tight spot or need to get in somewhere. Shooting it out or smashing it can be problematic and fucking noisy, you know. I realize you’re more of a ‘noise, violence, and assaulting things and people’ kind of person, but finesse works too.”

With his London accent and occasional excursions into Cockney rhyming slang mixed with snippets of the Chicago slang, Jero breaks the traditional enforcer mold. From what I can piece together, he’s been in the family for the last ten years. I’m sure there’s a riveting story behind how he ended up as a gangster, but no one has enlightened me, despite my digging. I’ve been working with him over the last year, whenever I wasn’t in school. Since they kicked me out, that’s been full-time. He’s alright, though. Swears ‘like a trooper’ and is covered in fucking amazing tattoos. Makes me want to get one myself.

If I didn’t have an aversion to needles, I might.

He works for Ettore Gallo, the underboss, which makes me work for Ettore, too: my family’s unofficial enemy. My late father set it up, placing me as a spy in the enemy camp.

I’m comfortable with the spying… and the other work requirements. Then again, I’m comfortable with a lot of things that would make most people run screaming…

“Great. I’ve never picked a lock before. But I’ve watched some dark web videos on it.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, about a hundred. But it gets repetitive after a while.”

He gives me an odd look then passes me a slim case from his pocket. “Have at it.”

It’s a good brand, I note. The padlock looks old. This should be a breeze.

It springs open on my second attempt and the big door rolls open.

Jero gives me another indecipherable look and takes the lock-picking kit back from me with a grunt.

“The world is not ready for you. Anything else you’ve watched on the dark web I should worry about?” He turns to face the stacks of liquor boxes.

“Probably most of it,” I admit, grinning. I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself.

He takes a scanner out of his pocket, checks the nearest box, and then shows me the screen.

“Bingo,” I say.

He rolls the door closed and snaps the padlock back into place.

“Now we wait for them to come back?”

“Now we wait for them to come back,” he agrees.

DANTE

I do a double-take when I get home and find Christian kicked back on the couch with a beer, watching a video on bomb making. “Planning a coup there, buddy?”

“I picked my first lock today,” he states proudly.

“Well done.” I grin, and it surprises me because I haven’t felt much like grinning recently.

My father’s death is still fresh. Then, yesterday, the swimwear model I was dating, and who took the break up badly,decided posting snaps of us together on her Instagram account to her half a million followers might help me to change my mind.

Cedro called me to remind me about being seen with ‘other women’ on social media, and that Carmela was his princess.